NEW YORK—Stressing that the league will take a hard-line stance when enforcing its policy for on-field conduct, NFL commissioner Roger Goodell announced plans Thursday to curb any prolonged or excessive touchdown celebrations by removing the areas of players’ brains responsible for emotions.

SARATOGA SPRINGS, NY—Spurning his deepest and most ardent desires, local man Mark Werner reportedly betrayed his heart Thursday by telling a friend he was dining with that he could have the last dumpling.

WASHINGTON—Expressing confidence that the nation would meet the ambitious benchmarks by the end of Donald Trump’s presidential term, Scott Pruitt, the president-elect’s nominee for chief of the Environmental Protection Agency, said Thursday he would seek a 30 percent cut in all carbon-based organisms upon assuming office.

LAKE ZURICH, IL—In an effort to provide customers with a more practical product that better suits their typical usage, office supplies manufacturer Mead released a new realistic day planner this week that only includes entries for the first couple weeks after its purchase.

BOZEMAN, MT—Assuring reporters they could maintain the man’s elevated levels of stress and get his mind racing uncontrollably, three cups of coffee stated Thursday morning they were confident they could take local resident Ryan Hubbard’s anxiety from here.

‘We’re Excited About This, But Silt Research Certainly Isn’t For Everyone,’ Say Geologists

BOULDER, CO—A team of geologists from the University of Colorado announced at a press conference Wednesday that they had made a significant discovery concerning the world’s silt deposits, but stated that they understand if you aren’t interested in that sort of thing.

‘I Can Mail It To You If You’re Still Using It,’ Says Mom

RACINE, WI—Concerned that you might be upset if she were to get rid of it without permission, your mother reportedly called Wednesday to ask if she could throw away your three-ring binder from middle school.

CHICAGO—Promising that every effort would be made to limit the impact on residents’ day-to-day lives, Chicago officials announced Wednesday that a fleet of plows was working around the clock to clear more than 18 inches of fresh bullet casings that had blanketed the metropolitan area overnight.

SEATTLE—Fearing the process was rapidly accelerating to the point at which it could no longer be contained, area man Brian Talbott reportedly looked on helplessly Tuesday as variants of his nickname evolved and multiplied at breakneck speed.

Oh, Shit! What Day Is It?

Boy, it feels like I just went to bed. I must've hibernated on my back all weird or something. What a dream, though, wow. I wonder what time it is. Guess I'll get some coffee on—wait a minute. Holy shit! Is that calendar right?

Everyone is gonna kill me. How could I do this? Man, fuck. Okay, okay, what to do. Come on, Phil, think. Maybe if I run down to the mayor's office right now, he can make a couple of phone calls, get the crowds and the tourists and the lady from the Channel 8 News to come back and—aw, who am I kidding? That'll never work!

This is not good, Phil. Not good at all. Tell me you didn't do this, Phil. Not this. This is the one thing you seriously should not have done. I was up half of January worried sick I was gonna oversleep. I finally tried reading for a little while to make myself drowsy, and the next thing you know, I wake up covered in drool and Groundhog Day is over? How could I be so stupid?

No. No, no, no, no, no! What, I can predict the future of the seasons based on whether or not the sun is shining one morning in February, but I can't figure out how to work a goddamn alarm clock?

This was the easiest job I ever had. One day a year—one day—where all I have to do is look in the direction of my shadow, and I fuck it up. Way to go, Phil, way to go! Another one of your classic moves. Five measly minutes of work and I could've gone back to bed until April, but no. No, that would've been too easy for Mister Fucking Punxsatawney National Icon With His Own Holiday Phil.

The elders of the Punxsatawney Circle are going to be so freaking pissed. They're nice and everything but they take this tourism stuff crazy seriously, and they'll never stand for this bullshit. I'll never be able to show my face around Gobbler's Knob again.

Damn! I'm such an idiot! Idiot, idiot, idiot!

Phil? Phil, you need to think of something quick. So relax. Uh, just try and breathe. Okay, what are you supposed to do? Inhale and exhale. In, out. You know what? I just need to calmly make a list of the things I need to do. Then I will do each of the things on the list. As I do each item I will cross it out. Yes. Now I'm getting somewhere. Let's see, what should I put on there first? Um, gee, well, I guess the first thing I should write down is that I'm screwed beyond belief here!

Wait a second. Maybe it's not too late after all. They can't do the ceremony without me, right? I'm the star. They probably had to postpone the whole thing. It's not like I have an understudy or anything. Yeah, we'll just do it a little late. I'll even look around for my shadow extra hard. Whatever they want. I could predict the start of fishing season. I could predict tax time. Hell, I'll scrunch up my cheeks, wiggle my nose, show off my cute little buckteeth, and predict whatever they want me to.

I still need a good excuse. I'll just pretend I got hurt. Yeah. My leg was trapped in a tree root. I couldn't pull it out so I had to, uh, gnaw it off. Yeah. Shit. That's really going to work when you show up with four legs, you fucking moron.

Okay, I'll just say I was there but it was so crowded they couldn't see me. I was running around trying to get their attention but I couldn't because I'm only a foot and a half tall. They'd buy that! Yeah, yes. Beautiful. Just need to comb my fur and I'm ready to go. Of course I don't know what happened during the ceremony so I wouldn't be able to prove jack shit.

I don't even know who I am anymore. I'm just a huge waste of fur. I had such a sweet-ass gig and I fucked it up. Every time they drive me to a photo op and I look out the window and see some dead rodent on the side of the road, I think, "If it wasn't for this job, that could've been me: dead in a ditch." This job was the one thing I had going for me. What am I going to do? Survive in the wild? Fat chance. I'd be eaten in 15 minutes flat.

There's no way out of this. I've just got to call them up, face the music, and see what they say. Now where is my goddamn phone, goddamn it?